


Daydreamer

by jaded_firefly



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28654833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaded_firefly/pseuds/jaded_firefly
Summary: They’ve been sailing for several weeks, but even now Troy can’t keep his thoughts on the Pacific.
Relationships: Troy Barnes & Abed Nadir, Troy Barnes/Abed Nadir
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	Daydreamer

“Four-zero-seven, four-zero-seven, four-zero….” I land on the apartment number Abed sent me. 

The door is plain, some shade of tan that my mom could probably name but remains exempt from my vocabulary. I look around. This lassiez-faire grouping of apartment buildings isn’t what I pictured LA looking like. It’s far less...lively. 

I stare down the door, switching my eyes between the piece of paper with the address scrawled on it and the three golden numbers hanging against the tan. 

I can’t help but feel overcome by nervousness that this is not in fact Abed’s apartment but some washed-up LA resident’s apartment who will be far-less-than-happy to see some twenty-six-year-old black guy with a goofy smile and awkward hands outside their door. 

I almost consider leaving to find a phone book or just plain leaving. Maybe we could meet at some more well-known location where…. 

Shit. 

How long have I been standing outside this apartment? 

I look around again, making eye contact with a flowering desert bush I’d been eyeing all afternoon, then I take a deep breath. This will either end poorly or it won’t-- I tap out “shave and a haircut” on Abed’s front door. 

No answer. I throw glances down the outside hallways to see if there was any response to the sound I had made--some confirmation that I did knock on the door. 

Nothing. 

I repeat the pattern anyway. 

No answer. 

“Abed?” I grip the door handle. It’s unlocked. I look around nervously, the landscaping outside Abed’s apartment building waves goodbye to me as I step inside. My eyes become transfixed by what lies beyond the doorway. 

Hung from wall to wall, door to door, counter to chair is what seems like every flat sheet and blanket in the greater Los Angeles area. I click the door shut, the easy lighting brings out my sotto voice. 

“Abed?” I barely hear myself speak. My eyes following the drapings around the apartment. I try to clear my throat but the anticipation of loud sounds makes my attempt unsuccessful. Music leaks from the back room. A guitar and a voice too familiar, too piercing. 

I get down on my knees and begin to weave and twist my body through Abed’s blanket fort to the back room. The complexity of these hangings makes our blanket fort at Greendale look like---well, child’s play. 

The blankets in the back room are higher up allowing me to straighten out as I crawl in. 

Abed sits in the far corner, guitar sitting against their bare chest. Their long fingers jump around the fretboard. They hum a tune I can’t quite place but that reeks of episodic repetition. 

I’m fully in the room. They set the instrument down and we make eye contact. I breathe deeply, the fort breathes with me as they approach me. 

Neither of us speaks, Abed tells me exactly what to be doing without ever moving their lips. Their hand runs over my jaw to the back of my neck, their other hand grips the small of my back bringing my torso against theirs. My mind whirls at the pressure of their body against mine. They kiss me as if we’d never been apart, remembering every move of their lips and mouth that made me melt into them. 

They guide our entwined bodies to the floor, we roll over….

“Dreamer Boy!” I’m pulled from my daydream, saltwater splashing up--hitting the cuff of my tapered jeans. I glance at the sound’s source. 

“Are you gonna shape up or should I get another unsuspecting heir to a family fortune of an old, racist, white guy they’re not related to help me sail this thing? Now tack the bow through the eye of the wind and do it fast!” 

Man, LeVar always says the weirdest shit. I wonder if he learned it on the set of TNG. 

“You got it, man.” I hoist myself up and cross the boat to the mainsail. 

“What was that?” A set of eyebrows pressed up in an expression of passive-aggressive irony twist around the mast. 

“Aye, aye Sir.” I retort back. He chuckles. 

I pull ropes from around the boat through and over parts of the ship I’m still not able to name. Not even a second week in Greendale’s sailing course could improve my mariner’s vocabulary. 

The Marshall Islands had become visible that morning. LeVar was in high anticipation of our meetup with several Marshallese sailors to re-outfit the boat. 

He kept saying that these sailors were the greatest in the world and I believed him but I was just looking forward to seeing some new faces. To seeing all the flowers in the plant guide we’d bought back in California, to eating coconuts, to learning about the coral surrounding the islands from the locals, to listening to Abed on the beach until we tire out our ears and move on to some more hand-heavy interaction…..

“Troy!” LeVar shouts from the bow, exasperation heavy in his voice. 

“Yes! My Bad!” I tighten my grip around a rope that my daydreams had slackened and once again I try to cordon off Abed from my mind but, man… I really fucking miss them.


End file.
